


Paper Wings

by Snekki_Boi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley wrote poetry, Fluff, M/M, Poetry, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 23:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snekki_Boi/pseuds/Snekki_Boi
Summary: Aziraphale didn't know that Crowley used to write poetry in his spare time. Of course, he didn't want Aziraphale to know. But upon discovering it, he insists that Crowley write more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I got like four hours of sleep and I'm doing this instead of my homework. I'm obviously not a good life model for anything.

On such a cold day in Soho, Aziraphale decides that it's best to stay indoors with a warm cup of cocoa. But the more he stared out the window being beat with strong winds, the more he feels a longing for a certain warmth from a certain demon. He doesn't want to bother Crowley, assuming that he might be just sleeping the weather away. But the cocoa in his hands is starting to grow cold against the thought of his demon's embrace. So, like any sensible love-struck person, Aziraphale miracles away his cup and proceeds to telephone Crowley. 

After four steady rings, Crowley picks up. "Angel? What is it?" 

"Crowley!" he calls, beaming excitedly. "It's dreadfully cold this time of year." 

"I think I noticed." 

"So I was wondering if you'd entertain the idea of me spending it with you." Aziraphale doesn't notice a flush going to his cheeks. "I-I can make cocoa for us to keep warm and two bodies together beneath blankets would be much warmer than just one!" 

There's a slight pause. "Oh, sure. Yeah, yeah, whatever you want, angel." Crowley made a noise in his throat. "You want me to pick you up?" 

Aziraphale can't stop smiling. "I wouldn't want you stepping out in the cold." 

"It's fine," Crowley said quickly. He clears his throat. "I'd burn myself before I let a bit of cold weather beat me!" 

The angel chuckles. "Well, if you'd like then." 

And that was that. 

* * *

When Aziraphale arrives at Crowley's in Mayfair, he couldn't stop chattering. Crowley doesn't mind, of course, happily watching the angel babble on nonsense and only stopping every once in a while when Aziraphale scolds him for not looking at the road. It's worth it, Crowley thinks. Even more when the angel brings him a cup of hot chocolate in bed. 

"Tired, my dear?" Aziraphale asks fondly. 

"Perhaps a bit," he murmurs back, eyes half-lidded as he lays back onto the pillows. "You?" 

"I'm fine," Aziraphale says. "Why don't you sleep? It is rather late now." 

"Sleep with you? That's odd," Crowley mumbles tiredly, eyes fully closed now. "You don't usually sleep." 

"Go on, dear. You must be exhausted." Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to Crowley's temple. "I'll pick something from your shelf and join you soon." 

"Whatever you want," he breathes, slacking. And he passes into unconsciousness. 

Aziraphale smiles and goes to the small shelf of books Crowley had miracled in recently after Aziraphale's stays grew more frequent. He looks over the spines before his eyes fall onto one that catches his interest. There aren't anything written on that spine and, when he takes it out, nothing on the front either. It's a journal of sorts. Intrigued, Aziraphale flips it open and scans the first page. The handwriting is familiar. It's Crowley's, of course. Aziraphale glances back at the sleeping demon, wondering if he would be intruding on his privacy if he is to read it. But Crowley did say "whatever you want." And if it is anything Aziraphale decides to be far too private, he will just stop reading and apologize to Crowley when he wakes up.

Aziraphale focuses on the first page. 

> Silken sheets and satin dreams, 
> 
> how I long to see the seams. 
> 
> In duty forgotten, disgrace. 
> 
> In memory of your delicate face. 
> 
> Chaos to order of the highest scheme. 

Aziraphale blinks. It's a journal of poetry that Crowley wrote. Deciding that it wouldn't be very imposing, Aziraphale returns to the bed and sits propped against the pillows. He continues to read as Crowley shifts closer to him and held on. Aziraphale feels proud, somehow, and amazed at his lover's writing. 

> Curiosity, it takes, for my fingers to bloom bruises. 
> 
> Forgive me, I murmur into tongue-ties with you in forgotten grace. 
> 
> It only takes a glance for my body to be ablaze. 
> 
> Mine, I call thee. 
> 
> Mine. 

There's a warmth from the words Aziraphale reads. He feels every stroke of ink on the pages. It's love from years since gone. It's love he knew existed but never said. Then he sighs, a little sad.

> Of fire, smoke, and smoldering flight. 
> 
> I reached for stars to end my blight. 
> 
> Watchful eyes ignored my cries. 
> 
> I was left down here to die. 
> 
> In truth, what was and cannot be
> 
> are all that wish to taste the free. 
> 
> Cruel and cold caress mine sleep. 
> 
> The dark, alone, I must keep. 

Aziraphale stops. He looks to Crowley, snuggled into his side with light snores, and feels tears pricking his eyes. He turns back silently to the next page. 

> What drives you, holy man in holy light? 
> 
> Such the golden hair a sight. 
> 
> The sun pales to your eyes
> 
> that seem intent to capture the skies. 
> 
> You are magnificence personified. 
> 
> I am the foulness crucified. 
> 
> What I desire in heart to cross
> 
> could only end in both our loss. 
> 
> To dine, I capture you in every gaze. 
> 
> But impossible is our very days. 
> 
> I beg, I beg, oh sweet divine. 
> 
> But I could never call you mine. 

He flips the page again silently. It's slightly wrinkled, as if someone was going to rip it out but decided not to at the last second. 

> Why must I see you so? 
> 
> Why, so cruel, do you look at me? 
> 
> That purity I had forsaken, 
> 
> untouched by even those above. 
> 
> To see you. 
> 
> To touch you. 
> 
> To hold you. 
> 
> To kiss you. 
> 
> Cruel, I say! 
> 
> To have you close, within my grasp. 
> 
> But if I told you, you'd be wrenched from me. 
> 
> Centuries, gone. 
> 
> They'll break you like they broke me. 
> 
> Please, don't leave me. 
> 
> Don't take him away. 
> 
> Angel of the Eastern Gate,
> 
> Aziraphale.
> 
> Since feathers over head of nightly dew. 
> 
> <strike>I miss you. </strike>
> 
> <strike>I love you.</strike>
> 
> <strike>I crave you.</strike>

Aziraphale stares at the scribbled lines over the last three phrases. He could barely read them, but he understands. He closes the journal, not wanting to continue anymore. And, pressing a kiss into Crowley's lips, lays down and sleeps. His heart beats fast, though he knows he could simply stop it. It's a quickened rhythm, a song, a cry. It aches. It asks for Crowley, and Aziraphale buries himself into Crowley's own chest. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!

Crowley wakes first, which is surprising to him because he usually sleeps more than Aziraphale. He blinks the bleariness away and looks down at his angel, arms wrapped around his waist and head buried into his chest. For a moment, Crowley feels sad because Aziraphale looks as though he buried his head to weep. But then Crowley brushes the curls away from his face and stops breathing at the serene look on Aziraphale's slumbering face. The longer he looks, the more his heart pounds. It takes some concentration for him to will his heart to stop, fearful that the beating might wake his precious angel, his beautiful angel. 

Aziraphale shifts slightly and something digs into Crowley's side. That must be the book he was reading. Silly angel must've fallen asleep with it, Crowley thought in amusement. Carefully, he moves around Aziraphale, uncomfortably and painfully, but that is the only way Crowley could think to move without waking him. He slides a book from between him and Aziraphale and freezes when he realizes that it's a journal. _His_ journal. 

"Poetry," Crowley grumbles, cringing at the memories. Then he feels the heat of embarrassment restart his heartbeats. He curses under his breath. 

Aziraphale stirs, groaning. "Mmmnn, Crowley? Is something wrong, my dear?" He blinks groggily at his demon. 

"Did you read this?" He thrusts the journal out in barely contained panic. 

Aziraphale rubs his eyes and takes a second look at the journal. "Why, yes. That was my selection from your bookshelf." 

"From my book-" Crowley looks choked for words. "It's not a book, angel! It's- How much did you read?!" 

"Four or five pages, I think," he says, frowning guiltily. "I'm very sorry, Crowley. I didn't know you didn't want me to read it. I didn't think it was that private." Aziraphale's shoulders slouched sadly. "But that's no excuse. I should've asked." 

Crowley's anger dies in his chest at the sight of his angel looking so dejected. He huffs halfheartedly then moves closer to him. "Well, as long as you've learned your lesson, I suppose." 

Aziraphale nods, brightening just a little. 

The embarrassment creeps into Crowley's stomach again and he instinctively holds the journal to his chest. "You know, I wrote most of these when I was drunk! So, you know, it's all mostly nonsense. I mean, they're all nonsense!" 

The angel looks at him softly, smiling reassuringly at him. "Crowley." 

"Seriously, I don't even know why I kept this. I was probably going to throw it out but misplaced it and forgot. You know anything could happen in the span of-" 

"Crowley," Aziraphale calls again, hardly any louder than before. 

"Yes?" 

He sighs. "It's alright, Crowley." Aziraphale reaches tentatively for the book. 

Crowley gives it up. 

"It's alright," he repeats. "I enjoy all forms of literature. Yours is no exception." Aziraphale runs a hand over the cover fondly. "I think you write marvelously, Crowley. I think this is beautiful." 

He sputters. "I-I- Well, you- It's not like I'm a classical author like Shakespeare or Gaiman or whoever." 

"I think you're beautiful," Aziraphale says. "Beautiful. Your writing and yourself." 

Crowley opens his mouth to talk but finds he doesn't know what to say, so he snaps his jaw shut. Aziraphale chuckles at this and kisses his jaw lovingly, trailing down his neck and then up to his lips, feeling full with love - sweeter than the crepes from France, if he dares say. And he does dare say. All the time, if he could. Crowley knows this well. 

"Darling," Aziraphale murmurs, eyes full of adoration and affection. "You don't have to, but I'd like to ask." 

"What is it, angel? You can tell me." 

"Would you mind writing something for me?" 

Crowley stares at him, eyebrow quirked. "Write for you?" 

He nods, smiling shyly. "The pages I've read sounded so heartbreaking. I-I don't think I can take thinking how unhappy you felt. Won't you... write something for me?" 

"What do you want me to write?" Hesitant but not unwilling. 

"Whatever you feel," Aziraphale says, pulling Crowley close. He never wants to let go. If eternity allowed it, Aziraphale would want to hold Crowley in his arms forever, pepper his cool skin with hot kisses and worship his body far better than Hell and Heaven ever did for all his worth. "Your heart, your love, your fears. Anything, everything." 

"I've not written in an age," Crowley admits quietly, closing his eyes to bask in Aziraphale's gentleness. "I don't know if I can. Not for... you." 

"Imperfect," Aziraphale says, tightening his hold around Crowley's waist. "Write all your imperfections in ink and I promise you that it will be perfect to me. Absolutely perfect. That's what you are, my dear. Perfect, perfect." 

Overwhelmed with emotion, Crowley kisses Aziraphale with greatest passion then miracles a pen and paper into his hands. "Why don't you make a cup of cocoa, angel? By the time you've finished your cup, I'll have it done." 

Aziraphale nods. Though he doesn't want to leave Crowley's side and doesn't want Crowley to leave his side, he forces himself out of bed and walks into the kitchen. Crowley walks to his desk and begins writing, pen gliding in a fever unlike anything he's ever felt before. 

* * *

Aziraphale moans, licking his lips. "Just the perfect sweetness," he says, putting down his cup. "Humans really are marvelous with their foods. Chocolate has developed quite nicely over the centuries." 

Crowley chuckles. "If it wasn't so cold out, I'd have gone for dessert with you, angel. But we'll have to settle with hot chocolate for now." 

"We've all the time in the world," he says, looking at Crowley fondly. "All the time in the world to savor." 

Crowley gets the feeling that Aziraphale doesn't mean chocolates. He concentrates on keeping the heat from rising to his face. "I'm done, angel. Just like I said I would be." 

"Wonderful!" Aziraphale chirps. "May I?" 

He nods, watching the angel with a breath he doesn't realize he's holding. 

> Beauty brighter than the eastern sunset, 
> 
> such untouchable light in purity. 
> 
> I long to hold you forever, 
> 
> to keep you for eternity. 
> 
> An ache of hearts, I must say, 
> 
> for fear the world will steal you away. 
> 
> Hellfire and holy water can't keep me from you. 
> 
> My one and only darling, you. 
> 
> I fear to see your light consumed, 
> 
> feathers burned in ashen plumes. 
> 
> The pain, I bore, most excruciating 
> 
> should never befall one so forgiving. 
> 
> Tell me now, for you, I don't go too fast. 
> 
> Promise me that we shall last. 

Aziraphale feels tears in his eyes again. 

"Angel?" Crowley asks, barely above a whisper. "Are you alright? Is it that bad?" 

"Oh, Crowley." He sets the paper down and hugs Crowley tight. "I love you so very much." 

This time, Crowley could not contain the redness rushing to his face. "You're ridiculous. Really." He returns the hug and grins. "I love you, too, angel." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was cheesy. Stay hydrated, peeps!


End file.
